Now That You're Helpless
by Lokifan
Summary: Riley, as Spike was, is in the mood to share some hurt around. A rewritten version of the fake-stake Into The Woods scene. Warning: non-con.


He hadn't meant to hurt her. Honest.

He pulled the cork from his bottle, and sighed. Well, maybe he had meant to hurt her. Unrequited love's a bitch, and Spike had been in the mood to share the hurt around.

_Bang._

The door burst open with a slam of metal on stone. Riley burst in, stinking of fury and pain, with old, unfulfilled lust from hours earlier covering it all. Looked like soldier boy wasn't in the mood for covert right now. But if he'd been any good at it, maybe he wouldn't have got caught so easily.

Spike didn't share this piece of wisdom; he just sneered. "What took you?" He put the cork back in: no pointing in wasting terrible alcohol. "Guess it takes a while to get back to full strength after those bites."

Riley reached down and grabbed Spike by his T-shirt, pulling him easily out of his chair. He was actually baring his teeth. Spike said quickly, "hey! Hey, let's be reasonable about this."

Riley swung him and slammed him up against the stone pillar. He instantly pressed close, huge hot body trapping Spike against the hard stone. "You may have noticed, Spike – " He punched Spike in the face, slamming his head back against the pillar – "I left reasonable about three exits back."

"Look, I'm not the one who got you into this. Don't kill the messenger."

Riley's face twisted into a scowl, and he raised a stake. Spike only had time to gasp before it slammed into his chest.

"Why the hell not?"

"Ow!" he yelled. "Bloody hell! Oh God!" The agony was such that he couldn't think of anything else, not even his imminent death: then he realised he wasn't dust. He looked down to see the stake still sticking out of him. "Hey..."

Riley viciously yanked the stake back out, ripping at the wound. The stake had torn through muscles and arteries, cleaving his heart, and Spike swore he could feel every last severed nerve ending. He clutched at his chest, feeling blood seep from the wound, and concentrated on not making a noise.

Riley held the stake in front of his eyes: Spike's gaze followed it helplessly. "Plastic wood grain. Looks real, doesn't it?" he said, with the calm and hint of smugness he always had when talking about his toys, as though Spike didn't have a hole in his chest and Riley himself wasn't sweating and half-mad with emotion.

He grabbed Spike's shirt, pulling him close, and Spike glared up at him and tried to ignore how much bigger Riley was than him. "Don't think I don't know what's going on with you, Spike. Stay away from her. Or we'll do this for real next time."

He patted Spike's cheek, big hot paw touching him and Spike hated that he knew it could hurt him: like being a boy again, back at school and getting shit from the big boys all the time because he was smaller and prettier than most and didn't know how to box. He stared up into Riley's blue-grey eyes – and then the big human moved, stowing his stake and turning his back. Because he knew Spike couldn't hurt him.

Spike laughed; he was still clutching his open wound but God forbid that ever stop him snarking. "Check out the big man." Riley turned back, head low and teeth showing like a golden lion about to pounce, and Spike laughed again. "Go throw your phallic symbols around in front of someone who cares, soldier boy. You know you're not going to be enough for the Slayer. She needs a little monster in her man... and that ain't you, whitebread."

Riley snarled and attacked, running at Spike and shoving him hard back into the pillar. Spike gave a strangled yell as Riley stood pressed against him, putting unbearable pressure on his chest. God, he was fucking enormous; Riley gripped Spike's upper arms, holding him in place against the stone with a grip like iron bands, digging in painfully. He was big, and hot with pumping blood, and overwhelming: his bulk trapped Spike, his scent smothered him, he seemed to be everywhere, keeping Spike from the rest of the world and escape.

Then Riley shifted again, and Spike felt something press against his stomach – _bloody hell!_ Spike nearly choked, staring up at Riley in shock as he realised the lust he could smell wasn't old at all: Riley was hard.

Spike reached for composure; the sooner he got the soldier boy and his cock away, the better, and he was sure he could do it. He smirked at Riley. "Well thank you, soldier. Guess all those years in the Army taught you to appreciate a fine figure of a man. Living the cliche, then?" He waited for Riley to freak out and flee his crypt.

Riley's eyes widened and shock appeared on his intent face: he seemed to have been barely aware of the arousal that was choking Spike with its scent. He flinched back, but he didn't run. He didn't even let go of Spike: he retreated only enough that the painful hold on Spike had to be done with his arms straight out.

His eyes flickered down to his vampire bite involuntarily, and Spike's eyes followed the movement. It looked incongruous on Riley's muscled arm, covered in golden hairs: like bloodied track-marks.

Still, Riley's eyes dilated a little more behind the golden fringe just at the sight of it, and that told Spike everything. He laughed again, lowly.

"Ohh... You're an equal-opportunity vamp-lover, are you? Anyone who'll bite you, who can make it hurt so good..."

Riley's eyes were dangerous now, the grey almost swallowed by the shining black of his pupils, glaring from behind his blond hair. "You can talk. The Initiative did tests, you know. Vampires get off on pain."

Spike remembered an Irish brogue, being forced over the edge as his skin was shredded. "Not all of us. Not all the time."

"Oh yeah?"

Riley dug his fingers into Spike's arms and spun, sending Spike stumbling away from him. He couldn't keep his balance and fell heavily, sprawling on the cold floor by his armchair. Riley followed him down, crossing the floor and lowering himself to his hands and knees. Spike stared at him wide-eyed, too shocked to react, half-lying there on the stone as Riley advanced until he was leaning over him, hands either side of Spike's torso, trapping him again.

"Why don't we just test that out?" Riley's eyes were blank and staring, his lip lifted in a snarl. His muscled shoulders bunched, and he pounced – before Spike knew what was happening, he was flat on his back, staring up at him.

"Forcing yourself on me isn't gonna make things any better," Spike said in a voice that quivered at the edges. He swallowed, eyes following Riley's hand as it rose slowly, and started to touch his shoulder, running along his body covetously. "Slayer's not gonna want you more if you – "

"Shut the fuck up, Spike," Riley snarled.

Riley obviously didn't know him very well.

"Sir, yes sir! Get off me, you idiot, you don't want this – you're just flipping – "

Riley's punch smashed into his face and Spike dropped instantly, now flat on his back and groaning. Agony flashed through him and for a moment he could think about nothing else. When he opened his mouth, Riley's face was hovering above his – and there was a switchknife in his hand.

"Army issue," he spat. "This blade'll cut through anything. So you just hold still, and don't talk, and maybe I'll let you go after."

Spike swallowed, fear vibrating through him like the sound of a pitching fork. He lay quite still, head back against the stone, arms at his sides, not daring to even fidget though the urge to _run_ thundered through him. Riley was straddling him, hot weight heavy on his thighs, pressing him down into the floor. After a few seconds, Riley gave a nasty grin and lowered the knife slowly towards his chest.

The silver tip of the knife caught the light as it lowered and touched Spike's collarbone, just where his T-shirt began. Spike watched with wide blue eyes, trying to breathe in case the knife sliced him. Riley gave him a cruel smile and pressed the knife down.

Ever so lightly, he cut the T-shirt away: one achingly slow line down the middle of Spike's chest. It didn't hurt, except when it brushed against Spike's wound: it was a light, almost sensual, dangerous caress and Spike could barely control his unneeded breaths, aware that if he moved too much the blade would slice into his skin. The whispertouch of menace kept up the pressure all the way down, and Spike held still for his shirt being cut away.

"Right. Get rid of the T-shirt. Boots and jeans off."

Spike scrambled to obey, not even glaring: he stripped himself eagerly, desperate not to have Riley do it. When he was finished, he stood bare and exposed: Riley had opened his trousers, and was stroking his cock as he looked at Spike's body.

Spike shuddered under his gaze. In that instant, all his pride in his body vanished and he wanted to hide himself, to cower in a dark corner where no one could look at him. But then looking was hardly the worst of it.

"On your back."

These terse orders were easier, somehow: though all Spike's instincts were to mock the army talk, right now he could just obey and not think. Then Riley's big, hot body followed him to the ground, where he'd laid himself like some fucking sacrifice in the ritual books, the ones that needed a virgin to be ravished – and God he hadn't just compared himself to a _virgin sacrifice_, and why wouldn't his mind stop babbling –

Then Riley's huge hands were on his thighs, seeming to sear him with their heat, and he was shoving Spike's thighs up and apart and he'd pulled down his trousers. Spike felt his hard cock nudge against his entrance, and had time to think _oh _fuck_ the stupid idiot doesn't have a fucking clue what he's doing – !_ before Riley shoved the head of his cock inside.

His whole body clenched and he yelled, a squawling cry like a hurt animal. Riley made a small sound of surprise – _yeah I'm not one of your bints, you can't do me like them_ – but kept moving. God his cock felt enormous, splitting Spike around it, like it was ripping into his whole world. Spike felt himself tear, cried out and smelled the blood. He moaned helplessly at the pain while Riley kept fucking him, hard and focussed and unrelenting. Blood wasn't a good lubricant, whatever some people thought. It went tacky too fast.

He tried distancing himself – thinking of Buffy or Dru or blood – but couldn't. It was impossible with this muscled body driving itself against him, big hands holding him down and gripping one hip, hot cock thrusting inside him. Riley was sweating above him, grunting with each thrust, and his cock hurt every time it went in and Spike just wanted it to _stop_. He wished Riley was smaller. This way, he seemed everywhere: big hands holding Spike's thighs up, keeping him in the position he wanted, face right above his twisted in pleasure, cock still driving in...

When Riley came, Spike shuddered too: with relief. Riley collapsed on top of him for a second afterwards, panting, and he squirmed, hating Riley's body all over him. After a few seconds he let go, letting Spike's thighs back down and standing up. Spike heard him do up the zipper on his trousers: quick and finished. He'd finished with this, now.

Spike lay still, eyes closed; he swallowed and tried not to shake or break down, swallowing back the tears. Fucking Riley was still there, he wasn't going to let the bastard see.

He made himself sit up: shifting a hand behind himself to support him, moving slowly: like an old man, or prey trying to avoid attention. He sat there, naked on the cold stone with legs akimbo, trying not to notice the horrible, sticky sensation of blood and spunk trickling from inside him. Riley _still_ hadn't moved: he was staring unabashedly, face expressionless, at Spike's curled body. His shoulders hunched under the scrutiny: unable to bear his nudity any more, he reached for his jeans and stood, pulling them on. He turned, careful not to give Riley his back – not that it mattered any more, it had already happened and he couldn't make it better, he'd already been stupid and made the bastard angry, he wasn't any less helpless. He went to his armchair to get the packet of fags on the arm.

He was limping slightly, and he caught Riley's nasty grin as he noticed. Hatred flared hot in Spike's stomach for a moment, before damp despair came crashing back down.

He picked up his cigarettes, and next second, flame flared in front of his face. Riley was briefly obscured in his vision by the fire; then he flicked the lighter closed, and the flame faded, leaving Riley just an unmoving man swathed in grey shadow.

He smoked the fag until it was burning his fingers, remembering the first time he'd tried one. Afterwards he'd killed the bloke who'd offered it to him, but not before he was complimented on his 'cool style'. And his name: the badass sound of _Spike_.

He let the cigarette drop, and gave Riley a sneer. Idiot still hadn't moved, standing there like a bloody monolith. "I guess me and Buffy both have the same problem, then."

Riley's lip curled. "And what's that, Spike? Because I don't see that the two of you have anything in common."

Spike laughed, a wet hollow sound like blood in his lungs.

"You got the same problem with reaching both of us." He lit a new fag and sucked the smoke into his lungs, and tried to ignore his shaking hands. "No matter how hard you try, you're never gonna match Angel."

FIN


End file.
